La mémoire se Fane she whispered… and then whispered she
This life is not mine and you are not me
Perhaps just a fraction… perhaps just a start
A small tiny fraction of what makes the whole heart
She did not like she but she adored she
She wondered what time she stopped being “me”
When she laid forfeit to this life of her own?
To be Eleanor Rigby every time she left home?
Hiding behind this mask she called she…
When, she wondered… will I become “me”–